


A Question of Physiology

by boggs90



Series: Compatibility [1]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-04
Updated: 2020-02-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:01:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22552939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boggs90/pseuds/boggs90
Summary: Hobbits just do things differently.
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins/Bofur
Series: Compatibility [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1622665
Comments: 8
Kudos: 99





	A Question of Physiology

**Author's Note:**

> This is my very first Hobbit fic. It’s also complete self-indulgent.

Some time between the first hearty meal and laying his head down on that soft bed, surrounded by the nighttime sounds of Beorn’s animals, Bilbo finally clued in: the first flames of Heat licked down his spine and pooled low in his body. Whether he’d ignored the warnings or whether it really had come on _that fast_ , Bilbo couldn’t say. Nor did it really matter because the bottom line was—

Well. No need to be rude about it, Bilbo decided, not even in his own mind. He’d just lock the door for a day or so and hope for the best. 

A better option was unlikely to present itself.

*

Food was abundant in Beorn’s house in a way many of the dwarves hadn’t seen since Erebor’s glory days. At the slightest suggestion of hunger, one of the animals would appear with a plate. Bofur tucked in, steadily demolishing the roasted potatoes piled high on his plate. Bombur had so stuffed himself he’d gone nearly comatose, an unheard of happening. Every dwarf knew to take advantage of their good luck in finding Beorn - never mind that Gandalf was behind it all - as once they set foot off his property, there was no telling when they’d eat so well again. Even Bilbo—

Bofur raised his head from his plate and cast a glance around the table. No Bilbo? At a _meal_? 

Bifur nudged him, gesturing to the hall. _He never came down_. Then, _you’re getting bloody obvious_.

Nudging his cousin back a touch harder than he ought, Bofur stuffed his mouth full again, muttering around the chewed food. “Don’t know what you’re on about...”

Bifur laughed at him, the arsehole. 

There was no doubting the hobbit was fair, beard or no, and of course Bofur had perhaps watched him a bit too closely, kept a bit too near. Any decent dwarf would! Bilbo was just so—he was such a wee thing, and fragile in a way all too foreign to the likes of dwarves. Bofur couldn’t help but notice when Bilbo was out of sight.

Bifur nudged him again. And he _winked_.

That was about all Bofur could take of that. When he pushed away from the table, he grabbed his plate, tossing a few rolls onto it. He’d have given the excuse of making sure Bilbo had something before they cleared Beorn’s stores out, but no one paid him any mind. Bombur’s eyes fell shut, and Bofur swore he heard a snore before he took the stairs up two at a time. Bilbo’s door was shut, which wasn’t an issue on its own, but it was also locked. Bofur jiggled the handle, balancing the plate on his free hand, before calling out to Bilbo.

No answer.

He tried to recall when he’d last seen Bilbo. Breakfast? No, he’d slept in, had assumed Bilbo ate and went out before Bofur made his way down. Lunch was a miss as well. He’d seen him for sure at dinner the night before, but even then, Bilbo had turned in earlier than the others. A headache, or so he’d said.

Bofur put the plate on the ground and fiddled with the hem of his hat, fingers searching. What if something was wrong? What if he’d left Bilbo in danger for a whole day? Or sick, or Mahal knew what else? Imagination had never been Bofur’s strong suit, but his mind appeared to be making up for lost time, spinning tales and egging on that spark of worry until it burst into flame.

His fingers found something sharp. He pulled the pick from the hem of his hat and made quick work of the lock.

The door opened to heat, to air so dense Bofur felt every movement like wading through a bog. But above it all hung a strange and unfamiliar scent, one that called him ever closer. The door fell shut behind him.

“Bilbo?” The name rolled off his tongue, slow and thick like honey, the atmosphere of the room making his mind feel stuffy like he did after too much ale. _Not normal_ , he realized.

On the bed, bundled beneath a thick quilt, he could just spy the top of Bilbo’s head. He wasn’t moving, and for a terrifying moment, Bofur thought he wasn’t breathing, choked by some poison hanging in the air.

But then, “Bofur?” The quilt shifted. 

“It’s me.” Bofur cleared his throat. 

“You shouldn’t be here.” Bilbo crawled out of the quilt just enough to scowl at Bofur, wearing it now like a cloak. “I locked the door.”

“I brought you food,” Bofur blurted, completely bypassing the fact that he had indeed picked the locked. Unfortunately, he’d left the plate in the hall on the floor. Bilbo leveled him with a distinctly unimpressed look. “I’ll just go get that.”

But before he could so much as touch the knob, Bilbo scrambled up. “Don’t open the door!”

Bofur froze. Maybe the air was poisonous after all?

But Bilbo just sank back down into the bed, huffing. “It would have passed in another few hours,” he grumbled, “but your scent—the lot of you!”

Bofur shuffled, lingering by the door. He felt he ought to be ashamed of something but hadn’t the slightest idea what.

“No manners at all,” Bilbo continued. “Dwarves! Absolutely unbelievable!”

“Begging your pardon, Master Hobbit,” Bofur began, “but what exactly is it that we’ve done?”

Bilbo rolled his eyes. “It’s a bit late for the formalities, wouldn’t you say? Perhaps it’s a cultural thing.” He looked disapproving regardless. “But hobbits do not take kindly to unmated alphas or betas barging in on an omega in heat! I don’t know how they handle things where you’re from—“

Bofur lost him there. “Would you mind trying that one again? Only you’ve said something about mating and alphas and I’ve not a clue what you’re on about.” He hoped he looked properly contrite, but Bombur was the one who’d gotten away with murder as a child just by looking up with those big sad eyes. His Ma always said Bofur just managed to look smug which hadn’t ever helped him much.

But rather than the continued exasperation he’d expected, Bilbo stared at him, mouth open. He put a hand on his chest. “No... idea? About—what exactly do you have _no idea_ about?”

“Anything, apparently.” Bofur shrugged. Feeling out of danger, he crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed. His head fogged up worse the closer he got to Bilbo, the drunken sensation powerful enough that if he let it take hold of him the room would start spinning. The urge to bury his face in Bilbo’s chest and suck in that sweet smell was both overpowering and bizarre.

Bilbo tracked his movements across the room and onto the bed, didn’t so much as blink. 

“Which are you?” Bilbo’s voice cut through Bofur’s quiet, trace like state. He jerked his eyes up from where they’d been fixed on Bilbo’s soft body to his face which had gone pink with the question. He couldn’t seem to look Bofur in the eye.

“Which what?”

“Your—you know!” He pointed at Bofur’s crotch, bashfulness lost in exasperation.

Bofur looked down. Could hobbits not tell? “I’m male,” he said, pointing down. “With a cock.”

Mouth opening and closing, Bilbo let out a strange squeak. He looked again at Bofur’s crotch. “But what else?”

“Dwarf?”

“I’m male.” Bilbo pointed at himself. “And I’m an omega.”

“Sure, okay.” Bofur nodded. “And what is that, exactly?”

“Do we use different terminology?” Bilbo muttered. “Perhaps.... but no.” He shook his head. “Do you go into heat?” At Bofur’s blank look, he clarified: “Do you have a, well, mating season?”

Mating like sex, Bofur supposed he meant. He liked where the conversation was going even if he couldn’t make heads nor tails of it. “Is that like a holiday?” 

“You... you really have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?” Bilbo clenched his fists in the quilt. “Do you have a knot?” He stuttered the last word.

“You mean a rope?”

“No, I mean on your bloody cock!”

Bofur spluttered. “Do I have a what on my _what_?”

“I can’t believe it.” Bilbo looked at him, really looked at Bofur. “Dwarves... they really don’t...?” He pushed the quilt away. Bofur looked him over: soft body, fitter than when they started, clad in a night shirt. The outline of his cock, the damp head of it. And actually, the soaked bed behind him?

“This is completely new to you,” Bilbo continued. He kept careful watch of Bofur’s face as though waiting to catch the lie. Bofur just nodded, struck dumb at the sight of him. Bilbo held out his arms. There was something academic about his attitude, about the sudden brightness in his eyes, a curiosity Bofur couldn’t figure out. Nevertheless he went to Bilbo and sank gratefully into his arms. His nose pressed to the side of his neck. “Interesting.” Bilbo’s voice seemed far away. Bofur breathed in the smell of him, sweet and full-bodied like ripe fruit, mixed with the salty tang of sweat. Close as he was, Bofur couldn’t deny it was the scent of sex, knew there hadn’t been anyone else in the room but Bilbo. Prim, proper Bilbo who must have been tugging at his cock before Bofur interrupted.

Bilbo laughed when Bofur nuzzled at him, then broke off into a stuttered inhale when Bofur scraped his teeth against his neck. “Wait,” he was laughing though, pushing at Bofur’s chest. “No, this is ridiculous, this is unfair to you—“

“Which part?” The syrupy slowness returned. Bofur let Bilbo push him away, let him keep the distance between them by scooting to the head of the bed. 

“The part where you’re drunk off my pheromones and think you want this.” Something wet glistened on the inside of his sparsely haired thighs. Bofur wanted to see it all. He moved as if to go to Bilbo, but Bilbo stopped him with a hand on his chest. “Bofur. We can’t. I shouldn’t have provoked you.” He looked genuinely contrite. 

Bofur still didn’t know what the hell he was going on about.

“If we’d talked about it...” Bilbo stopped, chewing on his bottom lip. “Perhaps, next time, if you really mean it...”

He’d never been so hard in all his life. Bilbo’s smell, the sight of him—Bofur _wanted_. He’d have Bilbo in any way he’d allow him, would sink into him, get his teeth into the meat of his shoulder. He’d fuck him full of his seed til he was swollen—

“And that is quite enough of that!” Bilbo cupped a hand over his nose and mouth, his face bypassing rosy straight to fire red. He yanked the quilt over his body again, shooing Bofur. “Out! No more of that!” Bofur nearly fell off the bed. He scrambled to his feet, stuck between wanting to comply with Bilbo’s every command and wanting to touch every part of him. But even sunk below the tide of his own lust, Bofur could see Bilbo meant it, that he wanted him out. It crushed him. But the moment he turned, intent on fleeing, Bilbo murmured something just quiet enough Bofur couldn’t make it out.

He stopped and cleared his throat, voice stuck. “What?”

“I asked,” Bilbo began, then paused as though he had to drag the words out of himself. “Would you leave your hat?”

Bofur wrenched it off his head and threw it at Bilbo who caught it—and pressed his face against it. The sound he made was nothing a mortal as lowly as Bofur ever expected to hear, so he did the reasonable thing. He ran.

Slamming the door shut behind him, Bofur trampled over the plate left in the hall, banged his way down the stairs, and took off out of the house into the cool evening air. He made it to the little shed off the side of the house, ducking around the back. His shoulder hit the wall as he scrabbled at his belt, shoving his hand into his trousers. He barely touched himself before he shot off, biting off the groan that might’ve alerted his companions. He sank to the ground, panting, and leaned his head against the shed. His hair caught and pulled, and he jerked away in confusion before remembering,

_Would you leave your hat?_

Bilbo had it. Bilbo was back in that room with Bofur’s hat—and perhaps nothing else. Bofur couldn’t shake the thought. He wanted to go back. He wanted to make sure no one else saw. He wanted—

Bofur grimaced, shifting. Clean pants, he definitely wanted those. Bilbo would be fine. In the morning, Bofur would go to him. He’d bring food past the threshold this time. 

And then, if Bilbo was ready, they’d have that talk.


End file.
